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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681641">Love in the time of Corona</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/haplessmedresident/pseuds/haplessmedresident'>haplessmedresident</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hospital AU (That No One Asked For) [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Hospital, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, COVID-19, Established Relationship, Footnotes, M/M, Medical Jargon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:15:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,343</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681641</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/haplessmedresident/pseuds/haplessmedresident</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is a somewhat chill-but-asshole-y, mostly level-headed beefcake, focused on Surgery, Grantaire, and compound movement exercises.  He has had a privileged upbringing in Southern California his whole life, and apart from Student Government Presidency, participating in Elections, campaigning for lowered tobacco tax laws, legalized marijuana and gay marriage, he is, for the most part, just a regular Surgery resident. </p><p>Grantaire, meanwhile, is an urbane, sophisticated academic with ten thousand hobbies that he gave up for the sake of a perfect GPA.  He, for some hand-wave-y reason, decided to relocate from NYC to LA.  (Ostensibly for his mental health, but actually because of the Matching).  Regardless, he’s more well-adjusted here than other permutations and takes his Escitalopram religiously.     </p><p>This is their story in the Musain Medical Center (a fictional University teaching hospital in Southern California) during the beginning of COVID-19.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hospital AU (That No One Asked For) [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/557032</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It goes like this:</p><p>On March 9th, there’s talk of a retiree in Santa Monica — who had no exposure history, and certainly no travel history — who contracts the disease and expires some six days later in the Medical ICU.  Enjolras, prepping to see a patient who just underwent bedside CTT insertion* but had to be monitored in the room — couldn’t help but overhear it as he changed out of scrubs in the quarters adjoining the OR complex.  </p><p>“But it’s a nursing home — I’m pretty sure they’re all immunocompromised somewhat, right?  That’s like, par for the course for anyone over sixty.”</p><p>Enjolras squinted as Jehan came into view.  “Yes, Courf, but what’s scary here is that this lady had no travel history to speak of.”</p><p>“She could’ve been 90, Jehan, fuck.”</p><p>“Yeah, sure.  But don’t you see how alarming the fact that she’s in a nursing home, right — and probably has little to no mobility, and also maybe no exposure — but she manages to get it?  That part freaks me out.”</p><p>Enjolras thumped the locker room loudly to alert Jehan and Courfeyrac of his presence.  He managed to toss his OR scrubs right into the hamper ten feet away even as the pager hanging form his belt-loop beeped for the second time in five minutes.  </p><p>He spared a minute again (a pending pneumothorax be damned? Hippocrates was rolling in his grave, but he had to get this out) to school Courfeyrac before he rushed down.  </p><p>“Jehan is right, Courf.  She has no travel history, means this is the start of community transmission.   We’ll be on lockdown in a week,” he said fiercely.  </p><p>Enjolras thought — somewhat foolishly, in retrospect — that maybe he was being paranoid.  After all, preventive medicine was a subject from roughly six years ago, and he had a Bachelor’s in Molecular Biology and Kinesiology, not Public Health.  Maybe the residency in Surgery meant he wasn’t too hot on his epidemiology stuff.  But he remembered — local transmissions and community transmissions.  Community transmissions and sustained community transmissions.  Community quarantine and enhanced community quarantines.  It all came to him in a flash as he took the stairs two at a time since the service elevators were busy loading dietary carts in one and a portable dialysis machine in the other.  </p><p>March 4 had been the declaration of a public health emergency, Enjolras remembered.  And something like 19 people had already died in California alone, but all of them with the appropriate travel or exposure history.  </p><p>Another pager beep came through right as he opened the Ward 4 floors, even as the RN rushed in to meet him.  “Patient Rivera was transported here fifteen minutes ago on 2 litres per minute via nasal cannula.  Vitals and sats were stable.  I came after hand-overs and was fixing her on the bed when she complained of DOB.”  </p><p>Enjolras could see where this was going and was wheeling in the ultrasound machine set up by the station.  “Go ahead and set this up bedside.  Alert the respiratory therapist just in case.”  When he saw just how dyspneic patient Rivera was and the eventual pericardial effusion** on ultrasound, all thoughts of community quarantine and a possible pandemic had been driven from his mind. </p><p>~</p><p>Enjolras remembered the conversation he’d overheard when he picked up Grantaire for dinner, later that day.  </p><p>The man in question was in the Residents’ Lounge***, reading Nelsons’ and absentmindedly flicking a Zippo between his fingers; he’d changed out of scrubs, and was wearing a cozy-looking cream sweater (heavy, for the humid California evening) and slim-fit chocolate-brown corduroys.  Enjolras had a moment, as he always did, to marvel at the vision that was Grantaire.  </p><p>He rapped his knuckles on the open door to call the other man’s attention; the endless fidgeting with the lighter resulted in a picture of someone deep in thought, and Grantaire hated being interrupted.  “Hey babe.  Is everything okay?”  He lifted his eyebrows at the Zippo, rhythmically being flicked on and off.  “You’ve been smoking?”</p><p>Grantaire looked up, alone in the lounge — he was always a vision, yes, but his eyes were made even more vibrant by the fact that tonight, for all intents and purposes, he appeared wan and sleepless.  There was a depth to his eyes that emphasised just how round they were, and the five o’clock shadow on his chin meant that he’d been too distracted to shave this morning.  Still, the facial hair did amazing things for his jawline.  However Enjolras knew just how meticulous his boyfriend was about grooming, and not that the other man looked unkempt, but there was a roughness to him that was rare to see, these days.   </p><p>“Hi love,” Grantaire said, immediately brightening up and finally setting down the lighter.  He lifted his arms for a hug and Enjolras, helpless as he always was to Grantaire’s cuddles, hunkered down and put his arms around boyfriend obligingly.  He ended up sitting beside the shorter man, kissing his forehead even as Grantaire ran his cold nose (what savage kept all four ACs on) along the side on Enjolras’ neck.</p><p>Enjolras knew this particular brand of clinginess; coupled with the tired look and the odd cigarette the other man must have been smoking, Grantaire was Having A Bad Day.  </p><p>“You smell like Sannosil,” Grantaire murmured into his hair. </p><p> “They replaced the Sterillium in the OR complex, don’t you know.  Apparently there’s a shortage.”</p><p>He contemplated prompting Grantaire about what seemed to be troubling the other man; on one hand, Courfeyrac said he tended to be bossy in everything, even casual conversation.  On another hand, Grantaire was prone to sulking when left to his own devices.  </p><p>Grantaire solved the problem for him.  “I’m just really, really exhausted,” he muttered pathetically into Enjolras neck.</p><p>Enjolras ground the pads of his fingers along the small of Grantaire’s back, contracting rhythmically in a way that he knew, from personal experience of PT sessions in college, felt like a dream.  The other man hummed appreciatively and clung, sloth-like.  “Yes, Grantaire, everyone gets tired after a 24-hour on-call shift.  What really happened.  The last time you smoked was during—”</p><p>“My grand rounds in Feb.”****</p><p>Enjolras lifted his head far enough to give Grantaire a look.  “Exactly.  You haven’t been this tense since then?  I know you’ve hit 200-plus on your sample size, which is way past your target, Courf told me there wasn’t a Code Blue in the wards last night, and I just talked to your mom on Messenger, and they’re both fine.”*****  He rubbed the pads of his thumb along the deep, tense line of Grantaire’s spine, imagining the musculature in his mind’s eye —  he was booking a yoga class for the two of them this weekend, for sure.  </p><p>Grantaire kissed his neck again, this time with a hint of teeth.  Enjolras’ hands spasmed.  He murmured into his boyfriend’s hair, “I know there’s something else.”</p><p>“I find your level of attention to my mundane life very, very attractive.”</p><p>Enjolras pressed a kiss on Grantaire’s lips even as his hands began to massage more firmly against the divots of the other man’s spine.  The edges of his pinky fingers slipped just beneath the waistline of the corduroys, to the dry, warm skin underneath.</p><p>“There is nothing mundane about you,” Enjolras said, probably more intensely than a pick-me-up cuddle required, considering where they were.  He punctuated this by pressing a kiss to each of the bruises under Grantaire’s eyes.  He felt the other man smile against his cheek, and took time to kiss him on the mouth, wet and warm and pleasant.  “Everything about you is miraculous.  Even your shitty driving is a wonder in and of itself.”  </p><p>Grantaire laughed and obligingly pressed back against Enjolras’ hands and began to hum even more appreciatively, moving in for a longer, deeper kiss.  They either needed to have this conversation somewhere else, or Enjolras would soon have a lapful of clingy, pliant boyfriend and he was not, and would never be, The Guy Who PDAs In Call Rooms.  Just, no.  The face Courfeyrac would make.  The gossip.  </p><p>(Actually, legitimately, being fired.)  </p><p>He couldn’t resist slipping his right hand further down Grantaire’s pants.  What, his boyfriend was sexy.  </p><p>Grantaire gave him a cheeky grin.  “You know I actually do want to tell you all about it, but then that’s just the burden doubled and not halved.  When in fact, we can just call it a day and get In-N-Out then screw like teenagers back at your place?”</p><p>Enjolras made a contemplative face.  “More of the first and all of the last,” he said, decisively extricating himself from Grantaire and standing up.  The brunet was a well-dressed menace and he knew how weak Enjolras was for it.  Him.  (Mainly because Enjolras was demonstrative and distractible.)  “Let’s get dinner and you can tell me all about it on the way home, where we will not have pre-meditated sex because we’re adults with other hobbies apart from each other.”</p><p>Grantaire laughed and waited to be hauled up.   </p><p>Enjolras took his time brushing Grantaire’s bangs out of his eyes and fixing the hems of his cardigan, making a show of adjusting the crotch of Grantaire’s pants so he didn’t look to disheveled.  Grantaire swatted his hands away good-naturedly and began to stuff Nelson into a book bag, one of those things made entirely out of straps and handles, like a cat’s cradle, except the cat was 10 pounds heavy and polygonal.  His Zippo went inside his bag, because the pants were tight and Grantaire hated putting anything in his pockets that would ruin the silhouette (Enjolras had asked).  </p><p>“Did you hear about that lady in the nursing home up at Santa Monica?” Enjolras couldn't help but wonder, almost absently.  He knew he’d been forgetting something.  </p><p>Grantaire had finished fixing his various personal effects and was getting ready to close the lounge door behind him; most residents who were not on-call had gone home already, but Enjolras, as a fourth-year in the running for Chief Resident by 2021, always had something or other to finish up.  He certainly appreciated Grantaire’s patience.  </p><p>He waiter for an answer as they walked the whole length of the brightly lit hallway, where they didn’t encounter a single person; their soles squeaking in a bizarre way that reminded Enjolras, for some odd reason, of toddlers.  Outside the floor-length windows they could see a darkened parking lot, the traffic moving at an optimistically sluggish pace out on the a street beyond.  In his pocket, Enjolras’ phone buzzed as his battery hit below 20%.    </p><p>Grantaire still had not answered.  Enjolras peered quizzically into his eyes as they waited for the elevator to arrive.</p><p>“Hold on,” Enjolras started, eyeing Grantaire.  “Is that what’s bothering you?”</p><p>Grantaire gave him a neutral look, save for some tension in his brow that hadn’t been there when Enjolras was trying to cop a feel in the call room.  The elevators finally ding!-ed and opened, and they stepped in, miraculously without anyone else inside.  “Have you been following the news?” the other man asked, his voice soft in the small, empty space.</p><p>Enjolras shrugged, unrepentant.  “About corona?  A little.  I know the Hubei region started lockdown end of January,  and like, Italy’s been hit, especially Lombardy.  CNN was on in the room of a patient I was rounding earlier.  Apparently they’ve declared a lockdown.”</p><p>Grantaire began fidgeting now with his bagstrap; Enjolras took his hand decisively, clammy as it was, as the doors opened into the basement parking and they began to head towards his Forester; (the Civic, alas, had finally been retired, and was now squatting back at Enjolras’ family home.)  Grantaire heaved a sigh as his boyfriend got his bag, and opened the door for him, saying  “There were twenty new cases in New York City today.”</p><p>“There’s nine hundred so far in California,” Enjolras said, by way of prompting.  He pressed the engine open, the machine revving softly even as Dua Lipa began to play through the speakers, her alto thumping soothingly as he backed out of his parking space, saying baby keep on dancing like you ain’t got a choice.  There was something so peaceful about the drive home and Eighties-esque synth, Enjolras had always thought.  “Grantaire, if this is about your mom and dad, we can always call them later?  If you want?”</p><p>“It’ll be almost midnight by then.”</p><p>He stole a glance at his boyfriend, still looking listlessly out the window.  Enjolras made an executive decision to turn left down the block to make their way down to the nearest In-N-Out, a block and ten minutes of bad traffic away.  “Let’s send them a text tonight then call tomorrow morning.  Anyway, your dad has a driver and, like, a whole floor to himself in the office, right?”</p><p>Grantaire inclined his head in agreement.</p><p>“So he’s not in contact with so many people.  No comorbids?”</p><p>“Surprisingly, considering how much he drinks, none.”</p><p>“Must be because it’s mostly wine,” Enjolras nodded sagely.  (He’d met Grantaire’s parents two Thanksgivings ago, during their first six months of being a couple, and had blown away Grantaire Sr with an heirloom bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon; Grantaire Sr, in his gruff way, had given Enjolras’ a two-second hug before they left and a promise to meet them in Santa Barbara the following year).</p><p>“And your mother only has hypertension?”</p><p>“Yeah, she’s on Micardis.”</p><p>Grantaire visibly lit-up as the In-N-Out sign came into view, just as Enjolras had hoped; his eyes began to take on more lustrous sheen, or maybe that was the reflective sign.  “Now that we’re gonna feed your unhealthy obsession, d’you wanna tell me about any other reason why the Santa Monica case is bothering you so much?”</p><p>Grantaire took his time ordering, like he was going to ever get something else apart from Double-Double, Animal-style.  (Enjolras decided, as he always did, with Double-Double, Animal-style and Protein-style, and began to mentally calculate what time his next meal would be after the eighteen-hour fast).</p><p>“Hey, how are you?  Good?  I’m great, thanks.  How about a Double-Double Animal-Style please, with fries extra crispy and chilies on the side,” Grantaire said good-naturedly through the open window, angling his body distractingly over the gearshift, his shirt riding up over his waist and exposing the dimples at the small of his back.  Enjolras began to think, absent-mindedly, that he’d never really need buns again even if he ordered all his burgers without them.</p><p>Enjolras gave his order and waited for the car in front to move.  And for Grantaire to talk.  </p><p>The other man tapped the screen of his phone and Googled something, opening it and showing something like a skewed bell-curve.  “You remember this?”</p><p>Enjolras nodded; he could see where this was going.  “Apart from the fact that nearly all curves in the world are bell-shaped?  I’m assuming that’s the epidemic curve.”  </p><p>Grantaire hummed in assent, as they inched their way into the open window where a cheerful girl handed them their order.  By mutual decision, they decided to place the burgers in the back-seat, and to begin eating fries on the drive home.  </p><p>“I’m just worried that this is the beginning of something horrible, like the lady who got it from someone at the senior home is just the beginning.  And, I don’t know, this curve, babe.  I don’t know how high it’s gonna get.  Hundreds?  Thousands?  And for how long, you know?  SARS lasted more than a year.”  </p><p>Enjolras decided to turn off the radio.  “Are you thinking it’s gonna get really bad?  Like Spanish flu bad? Bubonic plague bad?”  </p><p>The other man shrugged.  “Worse? I don’t know how much of this is me being neurotic, or from having done that paper on post-antibiotics-era epidemics I did in college.  Or maybe the IDS rotation last year.  But the numbers, Enjolras.  Did you know that by February, the death toll in China alone had gone past the death toll of SARS?  And yeah, SARS went on for more than a year.</p><p>“So what’s getting to me is that, this shit’s gonna be big.  Like, it’s gonna blow up in our faces. This virus is behaving worse than SARS, it’s gonna be as infective as the common cold but it’s gonna hit us like Ebola—”</p><p>“— Probably not like Ebola—”</p><p>“Okay, yeah, not like Ebola.  Maybe like the swine flu.  From ‘09.  Am I being ridiculous?”</p><p>“I remember.  I was in college then.  My tennis championships were rescheduled, and no, you’re not being ridiculous.”</p><p>“Okay, thanks.”  He squeezed Enjolras hand over the gearshift gratefully.  “But something tells me this is gonna be so much worse.  And we’ll be here with our President and his CDC funding cuts and shitty healthcare and there’s gonna be so much death, Enjolras, they’re all gonna get picked off one by one.  It’s gonna be a war.  It’s gonna be like Deathly Hallows or some shit.”</p><p>Then Grantaire huffed a breath out, and Enjolras knew he was gearing up to talk some more, but   the SUV began to smell like burgers and fries during Grantaire’s tirade.  No sooner had Enjolras’ stomach grumbled loudly when Grantaire was holding out a fry, all the toppings precariously balanced along its length.  “Because I love you, I will give you this piece.  This is an excellent, Grade A, premium-quality bite.  Open up,” the brunette offered magnanimously.</p><p>Enjolras was glad Grantaire was willing to be distracted; he ate the whole thing and bit Grantaire’s thumb in the melee; then he began to suckle on it gently, giving a sidelong glance to his boyfriend.  </p><p>“We’re at Wilshire, babe, don’t start something you can’t finish,” Grantaire said airily, making a show of removing his fingers from Enjolras’ mouth, and proceeding to suck on it.  </p><p>“I can taste the boiled yams you had for lunch.”</p><p>Enjolras laughed. “Whatever, you said so yourself, yams doesn’t taste like anything.  If they did, you’d recognise that I flavored them with cumin and cilantro.”</p><p>Grantaire had begun to munch happily on his fries.  “I can’t hear you over the sound of my crunchy fries crunching.”  </p><p>Enjolras decided that he’d wait for Grantaire to bring up COVID-19 on his own, and waited for the other man to speak again.  </p><p>“Aren’t you worried?” the other man asked him.  </p><p>Enjolras drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as they hit a stoplight.  “I’d actually overheard Courf and Jehan talking about it earlier.  I think I snapped at Courf a bit because he was talking like it wasn’t a big deal.  Like the start of community transmission isn’t.”  He took the opportunity to get a fry from Grantaire’s stack. </p><p>Grantaire pretended to smack his hand away, but Enjolras had gotten away with five pieces and was attempting to eat them in one bite.  </p><p>“We’re approaching your building in awhile,” he said, after a particularly valiant effort to swallow it in one go.  “Do you have to get anything or do we go straight to mine?” Enjolras offered.  </p><p>Grantaire shook his head.  “No, I’m tired. Anyway I have some clothes at your place, that’s fine.  You were right to snap at Courfeyrac.  If COVID-19 is Voldemort, and sustained community transmission are like, Death Eaters, the Santa Monica patient is Frank.”</p><p>“Who’s Frank?  Was there a Frank?”</p><p>“The old gardener at Tom Riddle’s house!  The first one they kill after Voldemort’s resurrected.  I feel like we’re in the Goblet of Fire.  Like we don't know it yet, but it’s the start of the end.”</p><p>Enjolras took the time to flick Grantaire’s ear lightly (“Ow!”) before he he pushed the accelerator.  “It’s not the start of the end.  But I do agree that it’s the start of something.  I think the patient’s more of a Charity Burbage, actually.”  </p><p>Grantaire thumped his head forlornly against the headrest.  His fries were almost gone, because he was a stress-eater-of-fries and Enjolras was a thief.  “We’ll be on lockdown in a month, babe.”</p><p>And that’s where he was wrong.</p><p>They were on lockdown in ten days.  </p><p>~</p><p>Footnotes:</p><p>Bedside CTT insertion - when fluid (blood, chyle, pus) accumulates between the lungs and the rib cage, the lungs have a hard time expanding, compromising a person’s ability to breathe; patient Rivera most likely suffered an acute chest wall injury that caused blood and air to accumulate quickly in this space (pnuemohemothorax), which is why a bedside CTT was done.  </p><p>** Pericardial Effusion — this same patient, who’s a trauma patient, apparently was suffering even<br/>
more extensive injuries, as Enjolras noted blood accumulating even in the pericardial sac (a fibroelastic layer around the heart).  You can imagine that when blood starts to accumulate around the heart, the ability to fill and pump blood out may be compromised.  This condition is called a cardiac tamponade, which can result in death if not addressed quickly.  This is why Enjolras forgot all about the Santa Monica case when he saw the effusion on ultrasound.  </p><p>*** Residents’ Lounge/Call Rooms — This varies by hospital, but it’s essentially where residents stay when they’re on call duty, if they’re not in the sleep rooms (bunk beds, phones, chairs, etc).  Good call rooms have couches, desks and computers, a coffee maker, internet access, a phone; I know people who bring all sorts of things, like house plants, oven toasters, etc.</p><p>**** Grand Rounds — residency training programs usually have scholarship built in, so people are expected to make case series, be part of clinical trials, make case reports on top of clinical rotations.  The Grand Rounds conducted by Grantaire, a third year Paediatric Resident, was attended by attendings part of the faculty, fellows, other residents, interns and medical students.  After you talk, you’re grilled.  It’s as stressful as it sounds.  </p><p> ***** Target sample size — Grantaire’s doing research on the rate of measles’ re-emergence and the decline of vaccination; he needed at least n = 185 measles cases’; Code Blue — basically, when someone calls for a Code Blue, it means someone’s undergoing cardiopulmonary arrest (dying) and the Code Team has to be activated;  it’s usually an intensivist/cardiologist, or a senior resident who is the Team Leader for the Code.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Featuring extensive Harry Potter references once more.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grantaire used to begin his days like this: at least three alarms, pre-set the day before, would go off in fifteen minute intervals; he’d then wake up, shower, text his boyfriend.  Text his mom and check on his cat, Peggy, who was now living across the country.  If Grantaire woke up by the first alarm, he’d have the time to go for a jog or a bike ride that would end at the Starbucks a block away from the hospital, at which he would order the bacon-gouda-egg sandwich and three espresso shots with a pump of white mocha and half-and-half, iced.  He’d then ride that same bicycle down the block into the hospital, and by then, feeling sufficiently awake, be ready to attend morning hand-overs at eight o’clock sharp.  </p>
<p>If he didn’t have the time and it took the third alarm to wake him up (the 7:30 am one; he lived life on the edge), after showering he’d just pack at least one bottle of 5-Hour Energy (red-colored and berry-flavored) and a banana, ride the same bicycle from his building to the hospital, scramble to be at the call-room in ten minutes, and hope Enjolras packed him something edible and substantial.</p>
<p>(Enjolras always packed extra, and they were always substantial; but the man had a utilitarian view towards food, and Grantaire liked textures, flavors and buttery things, so their definitions of edible happened on a spectrum).</p>
<p>After hand-overs, Grantaire would gather his team, with two interns and two medical students; on days that he was not on call duty, they finished hand-overs by nine or ten am, noted all labs done in the morning, finished rounding patients by two or three pm (on a slow day), including the new admissions, updated all the attendings who didn’t round yet or accompany those who were rounding.  By three PM there was usually time for lunch at the cafeteria, if none of the interns had gotten food yet.  (On slow days, or on days that Grantaire needed a pick me up, he used Uber Eats).  After the late lunch, it was time to write on charts, check if labs or other tests had to be repeated, and by five or six pm, start evening hand-overs to the call duty team.  </p>
<p>Twenty-four hour call duties were more of the same, but thrice the responsibility (as he received evening hand-overs of the two other teams) all the way through the night until 8 o’clock the next morning; and he tended to start the day with four espresso shots instead of three.  </p>
<p>It wasn’t bad, Grantaire had always thought, every time a non-MD friend would ask how he could go on ten-hour work days interspersed with 24-hour call duties every three days.  It was just how it was, and there were days that scraped the bottom of the barrel of his soul (multiple fractures on an infant and the hysterical grandparent who brought them; paediatric rape victims; having to tell a parent the new CT scan after chemotherapy just isn’t looking as good as we hoped), and there were days that he felt, against all odds, that he was at the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing. </p>
<p>It was an 80-20 thing, even if the 20% made up everything that was dark and wretched in the world.  </p>
<p>Nowadays, though.  During what Grantaire called Order of the Phoenix days (because people were still trying to pretend that everything was in control, but there was a war starting) — nothing was the same.  </p>
<p>Ever since community quarantine started, there was a different quality to the atmosphere.  People were tense.  People were quiet.  People stayed away from each other, precisely at least one meter apart.  Most everyone avoided the elevators if they could help it.  Amongst the residents, there were only call-duty teams, cycling in and out every twenty-four hours, Team A endorsing to Team B, Team B endorsing to Team C, Team C endorsing to Team A, in a kind of closed-loop Venn diagram that was a poor substitute to the frantic, cheerful chaos that used to be morning hand-overs (all fifteen of them huddling in the call-room, fighting over the last of the good K Cafe capsules, who overwatered the lucky bamboo, who was next on deck to receive patients from terror attendings).  Grantaire knew it was a silly thing to miss, or even be sentimental over, given everything else that was happening.  But still.  </p>
<p>In addition, medical students had been sent home and their rotations cancelled.  That was almost half the workforce gone; now everything, from the simplest consult, to a code blue in the PICU, a death certificate, the discharge summary — was handled by just him and two interns, Gavroche and Bossuet, who made up Team C.  And now, since their work force was skeletal, the 20 patients they used to handle in the daytime hours had tripled in size.  On their call duty, they had to see an average of 60 in-patients per shift, not to mention the new admissions and the ER consults.  </p>
<p>Shit was crazy.  </p>
<p>After hand-overs, they would huddle in this manner, some variation of: “Gavroche, check all the discharges, facilitate them all before 12.  Handle the paperwork and prescriptions.  Take my extra Trodat with you.  Bossuet, check all labs, histopaths, intra-ops, imaging, and make sure they’re all in the chart.  Correct all the correctibles you can handle, if you have questions, call me, or something bad comes up, like 3.0 creatinine or if you see blasts on a CBC or a PBS.  Any sort of blasts.  Any blast anywhere.   If you see a blast, call me.  I’ll get our consults at the ER, hopefully we can start rounding by 11 or 12.  Call or page me if there’s trouble.  Bossuet, don’t forget about the blasts.”*  </p>
<p>And off they went, like an assembly line (a group of tasks by one person, no case-based learning anymore, no thoughtful back and forth with the attending, no weekly didactics in conference rooms, no case presentations of interesting encounters, nothing).  </p>
<p>At the end of the call-duty, Grantaire would curl up in the lounge (there was a LazyBoy perpetually reclined, near the water dispenser, and directly on target of the four ACs, which Grantaire had mentally dubbed His Chair) text Enjolras to fetch him once the latter was out of the OR, and sleep.  (The only benefit to Enjolras’ additional paperwork as assistant chief was the fact that he got to select his call days and have them coincide with Grantaire’s.)</p>
<p>At 9:00 am on the aftermath of a skeletal call duty day, ‘Reflection’ started playing, rousing him from REM.</p>
<p>“Hello?” he said, drowsily.  </p>
<p>It was Enjolras.  “Hey, ‘morning.  Did I wake you? I just came out of the OR.”</p>
<p>Grantaire yawned.  “Yeah. Are we leaving soon?”  He burrowed under his coat some more.  There was something so cozy about feeling cold, and wrapping yourself up in layers.  </p>
<p>“Yeah we are, I’ll just have to take a shower here and then I’ll meet you in the lounge.”</p>
<p>Grantaire grumbled. “Why didn’t you just call me after your shower? I could’ve slept some more.”</p>
<p>Enjolras laughed (a low, indulgent sound, like a hot tea on a summer day), “I know, but I bet all your stuff is scattered around you right now, and you’re going to spend at least ten minutes trying to find everything.  So by the time I get there you’re gonna be just about ready and we can leave ASAP.  You’ll get better sleep at home, won’t you?”</p>
<p>Grantaire eyed his various personal effects (laptop charging across the room; his power bank, Airpods, Bluetooth speakers and extra phone all plugged into an extension cord that was also his; his coat and scrubs in a laundry bag next to his satchel near the door; his textbook, highlighters, two fountain pens, at least three ink bottles scattered on the coffee table next to the LazyBoy; his running shoes peeking out underneath the couch next to him).  “You don’t know my life.  You don’t know my choices.”</p>
<p>Enjolras humored him.  “Sure.  Oh, and another thing.  The patient we just did a straddle injury repair on is apparently a PUI.  She’d vacationed in Singapore week before last and she noted febrile episodes last Monday.  They think she was febrile while riding her bicycle, which led to the accident.”</p>
<p>The brunette became considerably more awake at these words.  “Hey. What? How are you feeling?  How is she now?  Is she getting swabbed?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, she’s getting swabbed, don’t worry.  We’re also doing a swab on her sister, the one who brought her in; apparently they live in one apartment.  The sister’s asymptomatic, by the way.  I really have to get into the shower.”</p>
<p>Grantaire nodded, then realized Enjolras couldn’t see him.  “Did you see either them without a mask?  Or did they talk to you at all without you in a mask?”</p>
<p>Suspicious silence.  </p>
<p>Grantaire felt the beginnings of worry creep into his brain, tense and heinous.  “Enjolras.”</p>
<p>“…I may have, when I went to the ER to see her.  But!  Only for a little!  She was bleeding out, Grantaire, you know how straddle injuries work.”</p>
<p>!!! went Grantaire’s brain.</p>
<p>“And I got her sister to sign the consent for procedure, I think.  I think I was about a meter away.”</p>
<p>!!!!!</p>
<p>“We didn’t talk much.  All NOI-POI-DOI-TOI stuff, the usual trauma interview—” **</p>
<p>“—Julienne F. Enjolras, you suicidal fuck, if you do that one more time, I will cut your nails so close to the skin you’ll feel the edges even asleep.”   </p>
<p>“Hey, now.”</p>
<p>“Never do that again, do you hear me?” Grantaire said, a bit of hysteria crawling into his voice.  He blamed it on the coffee, extended sleep deprivation and the dream he was interrupted from, which featured MewTwo live-vlogging a match between Charizard and Rocket Raccoon. Plus he had the call room all to himself.  He could gesticulate.  </p>
<p>Enjolras managed to sound contrite over the phone.  “I know.”</p>
<p>“Enjolras, you know how bad things are getting.  You know Marius has four residents from Medicine on quarantine?” ***</p>
<p>Enjolras huffed sadly over the phone, “Yes babe, I know.” </p>
<p>Grantaire could feel a headache coming on, starting between his brows and extending reliably, as it was wont to do, across his head like a crown, if the crown were made out of hot rubber and wholly unpleasant.  </p>
<p>Then the throbbing started. </p>
<p>“Please, Enjolras.  Every day’s a shitstorm already, please.  I’d probably combust if something happened to you.”</p>
<p>“…Yeah, me too.”</p>
<p>Grantaire rummaged in his satchel for a Tylenol.  “Go shower.  I’ll be here in the lounge. Make sure you’re wearing a mask when you go out.”</p>
<p>“I will.  I’ll see you later,” and Enjolras hung up, and Grantaire took the Tylenol, and the Lexapro, and the Centrum all at once, for good measure.  </p>
<p>~</p>
<p>Grantaire (leaning against the wall in linen trousers, white polo shirt, and brown loafers, like an IG model) was out waiting for him by the residents’ lounge when Enjolras stopped by.  </p>
<p>“Hey.”</p>
<p>Grantaire looked at him, tense.  “Hey.”</p>
<p>“Look, I’m sorry,” Enjolras began, trying to quell his beginning frustration.  He hated arguing when he just got off duty.  It made him unnecessarily sensitive. “I’d just been eating when they paged, I didn't have a mask, and the patient came in for trauma.”</p>
<p>Grantaire began to walk in tandem with him, no cheek-kiss or hug, not so much as a smile to greet him after Enjolras practically spent 18 straight hours in side the OR, procedure after procedure.  The blonde felt irritated, in spite of himself, acutely feeling all the bodily aches that came from the 80-hour work week.  </p>
<p>“I know.  I just think you could’ve been more careful.”  Grantaire still wasn’t looking at him, voice just quiet and neutral the way it always got when he was upset.  </p>
<p>“I know I should’ve been more careful.  Fuck, I know.  I read the fucking memo and the fucking algorithm.  Don’t you think Infection Control isn’t already giving me all kinds of grief about it?”  Grantaire still wasn’t reacting, sighing.  “I know I messed up, I won’t do it again, I’m very sorry,” Enjolras continued, gesturing with his arms, beginning to feel the mounting frustration.  </p>
<p>Grantaire stopped abruptly, right there in the hallway, and turned to face him; outside, the day was beautiful, the traffic non-existent, and ironically, there was nowhere else to go and nothing else they could do in the whole county.  </p>
<p>“I hate arguing when we’re coming from a call duty.”</p>
<p>“I hate it too,” Enjolras said, feelingly. His whole body ached, and he just wanted to crawl into a bed with Grantaire for five years and not move.  </p>
<p>Grantaire punched him lightly on the arm. “I hate that you keep on forgetting to wear a mask.”</p>
<p>Enjolras caught his fist and made the executive decision to turn it into an opportunity for hand-holding.  “I know.  I’ll always pack extras in the scrubs from now on, I promise.”</p>
<p>Grantaire sighed one last time (he smelled like coffee and cigarette smoke, and Enjolras’ heart clenched briefly; Grantaire was always smoking, these days).  He squeezed Enjolras hands, and the other man squeezed back, just as tight.  “There’s an impractical part of me thinks that if something bad were to happen to you, I’d probably take an extended leave to be with you 24/7. Or something.  Even if the admin won’t allow it.  And then since they won’t allow it, I’d just have to quit the program entirely.”</p>
<p>Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh.  “You think your training officer’s gonna let you take a leave?  You think Javert’s gonna let you?”</p>
<p>“I said impractical, alright?” Grantaire huffed.  </p>
<p>They’d finally reached the parking lot, the weather as glorious outside as it appeared through the hallway windows.  The street outside was quiet, a handful of cars going through, no pedestrians in site.  The parking lot was improbably spacious for 10 in the morning on a weekday.  Then again, ever since the ambulatory care unit and private clinics closed to focus hospital resources on emergency cases and COVID-19 — the amount of people going to and from the hospital had dropped, and parking became a breeze.  Even allowing, surprisingly, outdoor parking for Enjolras.  </p>
<p>If someone had told him a month ago that parking would become so easy in LA that he’d find a spot within a minute of entering the gate, he’d have pissed himself laughing.  </p>
<p>Now, in the present tense, and in this context — apparently no, there was nothing laughable about it.  </p>
<p>They started walking to Enjolras’ car, holding hands.  Grantaire seemed to be feeling better and was attempting to swing their hands a bit.  </p>
<p>“I’ll start monitoring my temperature, babe.  And I swear the soonest I feel something—”</p>
<p>“If you so much as sneeze—”</p>
<p>“If I so much as sneeze, or sniffle, or cough, or feel something in my throat, I swear I’ll tell you.”</p>
<p>“Hm.” Grantaire eyed him shrewdly.  “You Surgery types.  You’re not immune just because your consults are mostly trauma or like, SOL’s, you know.  Treat everyone as infective.”</p>
<p>Enjolras smirked as they got inside the vehicle and the engine came on, while Harry Styles started crooning about idyllic summer metaphors over the speakers — “Does that mean I have to do social distancing from you, too?”</p>
<p>Grantaire dimpled up at him (finally!) giving him a sweet smile.  “Nah,” he said, voice tired, content, some of the the tension fading from his eyes.  “I think you’ll survive me.”</p>
<p>The other man laughed, opening the sunroof; it really was a beautiful day outside, even if the streets were empty and days stretched out unknown and frightening ahead of them.  </p>
<p>Still, there was this boy, possibly the love of his life, sitting next to him, and they could nap for the next ten hours together.  “Grantaire, you know you’ve ruined me for anything else, right.”</p>
<p>And the radio sang, <i> breathe me in, breathe me out, </i> and they did just that, and went home.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>* Blasts - the blast is basically an immature cell line from any of the ones seen on routine complete blood count or peripheral blood smear (immature red blood cell, white blood cell, platelet, etc).  If seen in pediatric populations, it usually means malignancy, such as leukemia, hence the cause for alarm</p>
<p>** NOI POI DOI TOI - Nature, place, date and time of incident, commonly done for trauma patients</p>
<p>*** Internal Medicine -- this, along with Family Medicine, is the specialty of doctors who do clinical practice and deal with adult diseases, as opposed to cutting services (surgery, ENT, Ophtha, etc), pediatrics, radiology, etc.  it's broad and includes Infectious Disease as its subspecialty, hence their regular and frequent exposure to PUI and COVID patients.  The frontliners' specialties as physicians tend to be Internal Medicine (Pulmo and IDS), Anesthesiologists and Emergency Medicine physicians.  In most hospitals I know, it was the IM residents who got infected first</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Author’s Note: </p><p>1. I know everyone and their mother thought this series was dead, but surprise! It’s not.  Since I’ve been in residency (not in Surgery or Peds, like our two lovebirds here), real life has gotten crazy, hence the inability to write or actually, even be in fandom for a long time.   </p><p>Having said that, since COVID-19 was declared a pandemic and my city on lockdown since March, our work in the hospital has gotten significantly more complicated.  I wouldn’t have been able to write, as things were going.  </p><p>Then, I tested positive for the virus.</p><p>So! Since I’ve been admitted for almost ten days now, when I started to feel physically better, I decided to write.  It’s more of an outlet (just like the last time I started writing fic again, which was during boards), and some of their experiences here are things that actually happened to me or someone I know.  This may be triggering for some, which is why I’ll tag.  But it’s a Hospital AU and we’re in a pandemic.  It had to happen at some point.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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